


Dancing On The Finest Line

by G4LL0WSC4LL1BR4T0R



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amputation, Canon Disabled Character, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, PTSD, Racial slurs, Swearing, War, peggy carter is an angel 2kalways, potential alcoholism, really vague descriptions of sex because i have no idea how to write graphic sex without dying, semi-graphic descriptions of blood and death, smoking and drinking, this is what happens when i watch war shows before writing a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/G4LL0WSC4LL1BR4T0R/pseuds/G4LL0WSC4LL1BR4T0R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During training, they’d been picked out for a special regiment. A few people from each platoon were chosen for the program, but in the end only twelve men are left; only the best of the best. Bucky didn’t know what happened to the others, and he didn’t care to think about it, either. It was only then that they were told just what they had gotten themselves into. They had been picked for a special division of snipers. They were stripped of rank and number and told that their real training started then.<br/>------<br/>Or: In Which I Watch Band Of Brothers, Get Overwhelmed With Emotions, And Try To Write A War Story Of My Own. And Fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing On The Finest Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surgicalstainless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/gifts).



> I'm technologically impaired so I'm putting the URL to my Tumblr post where you can find a link to each of the playlists I made because I don't know how to put in a link. http://jeanlucprouvaire.tumblr.com/post/106098617029/fic-part-1-frozen-to-the-bones-charlie-boy  
> For the Marvel RarePair Exchange!

Part One: Frozen to the Bones

During training, they’d been picked out for a special regiment. A few people from each platoon were chosen for the program, but in the end only twelve men are left; only the best of the best. Bucky didn’t know what happened to the others, and he didn’t care to think about it, either. It was only then that they were told just what they had gotten themselves into. They had been picked for a special division of snipers. They were stripped of rank and number and told that their real training started then.

The man who told them all this was massive and terrifying. Rather than pace back and forth and shout at them, like the other superior officers had, he stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, surveying them with a cruelly accurate eye. Buck Chisholm, their new leader. No title was needed other than that, he told them, because they were no longer an official part of the army.

He took over their training, and they moved out the next day to a remote location none of them could ever place on a map afterwards. The only other men Bucky saw for the next two years were Chisholm, and the other eleven chosen for the program. The training was for one purpose only; to make the men into the best infiltrators and snipers the army had to offer.

They practiced from sunrise to three hours past sundown each day. They knew that they would not have access to medics in the field, and their training included field medicine. They learned everything from improving their aim, to how to sneak through a crowded town in broad daylight to get into position, to how to keep themselves from going into shock long enough to take care of any wound and get out of there, and even how to speak enough German, Polish, French, and Russian to get by in any predictable situation. They received special equipment, too. Special uniforms with cyanide capsules in the shoulder for easy access, as well as weaponry. Each gun was tailored to the soldier’s strengths and designed by Howard Stark himself.

Through the training, Bucky developed a close bond with all of the men. There was Edward McCall, nineteen when they started, and from Tennessee. His lazy drawl had Bucky fooled at first, but it quickly became clear that Eddie was probably their best tactician. There was James Guarnier, twenty-two and fresh from Harvard. Jim made a point of telling them about how he enlisted the day after he graduated, and though the others mostly called him “college boy” and teased him about his higher education, Bucky couldn’t help but be a little jealous. There was Howard Christensen, who was the youngest at eighteen and a devout Mormon from Utah. Despite all the queer things Bucky had heard about the Mormons, he seemed to be a normal enough fellow, and he was certainly the quickest to pick up the languages. There was Albert Pattenson, who was twenty-six and married with a kid. Al carried a picture of his wife and son tucked in his helmet, and within the first few months it was already worn at the edges from where he held it. There was Robert Jackson, twenty-one and from Montana. He was the only one of them to have grown up with a gun in his hands, since he got most of his money and food from hunting. Jack Hess was also twenty-one and from Pennsylvania. He mostly kept to himself, but when he spoke up it was always worth listening to. There was twenty-three year old Alfred Donnelly from Nebraska. Alfie was educated up through high school, and he swore when he got home he would continue his education by going to college. There was Joseph Baldwin, nineteen and never without a cigarette between his lips and a story to tell. Joe’s family had traveled all over the states, and he said he’s had to fake an address to enlist. There was Steve Taylor, who was the only one of them they called by last name. It had been Bucky’s thing at first, when he just couldn’t stand to use the name Steve for anybody but his best friend back at home, but it had caught on. The twenty-two year old from Chicago was Taylor to all of the boys. Benjamin Lykens was twenty with quick hands and a sharp wit. He and Bucky hit it off almost immediately. Bucky suspected Benj liked him so much because he would never press about Benj’s past, figuring if he wanted to talk about it he would. Nobody even knew where he was from. 

Then there was Clinton Barton. He was, without a doubt, the very best of them. He seemed unremarkable and rather dumb, but Bucky would swear until he died that he’d never once seen Clint miss a shot. He was the best at stealth as well, and Chisholm’s clear favorite. Clint was from Bedford-Stuyvesant, so Bucky gravitated him at first, if only for familiarity. That connection died after the first week, though, when Bucky learned that talking about home only made things worse. After that, he simply liked Clint because Clint was a likeable guy. He was easygoing and actually hilarious, when he relaxed.

The twelve of them would laugh and joke at dinner, swapping stories and jokes and teasing each other easily. Their brotherhood grew as they trained together, slowly completing each part of Chisholm’s impossibly rigorous training regime. They would complain about how hard it was and swap tips to make things easier. There was no sense of competition between them, but rather one of companionship. In their eyes, they either all went together or not at all.

Chisholm was brutal, though. On the last day of training, he brought in twelve naked German prisoners who had, presumably, already given all the information they knew. He brought the first prisoner forward, pushed him down on his knees and took off his blindfold.

“Baldwin, step forward.” He ordered, gesturing to the spot right in front of the prisoner. Joe complied, standing only two paces away from the terrified German. “Ask his name. Look him in the eyes while you do.”

Joe looked confused, but he stared down directly at the prisoner and asked, “Wie heißen sie?”

Even his voice was trembling when the German replied, “Dieter Ader.”

“Ask about his family.” Chisholm ordered.

Joe glanced up at him, then back at the other troops, who were all just as lost as he was, before he turned his gaze back to Ader. “Haben sie familie?”

“Ja.” Replied Ader. “Eine frau und zwei töchter. Bitte, wollen sie mich nauch hause zu kommen.”

“Shoot him.”

All eyes had turned to Chisholm as he’d calmly delivered the order, then back to Joe, who was still staring, horrified at their leader. “What?” He asked, his voice shaking.

“You heard my orders, Baldwin. Shoot him. He’s a Kraut. He’s only good to us dead.”

Joe stared back at Chisholm for a long time before finally moving. It was smooth and fast, the way he brought his gun down and pulled the trigger, sending one shot directly through Ader’s head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“Good. I made a mass grave just one mile south. Take his body and throw it in. Wait there for further instruction.” It was as if he was ordering any regular hike, his voice never wavering or betraying any sign of doubt.

“Yes, sir.” Joe said, before lifting the body and throwing it over his shoulder and heading off into the southern woods. 

As soon as Joe was out of sight, Chisholm dragged the next prisoner forward. “Barton, here.”

And on it went. They were forced to stare their man in the eyes, get his name, ask about his family, and then kill him. Clint, then Bucky. His prisoner was named Heinig Seelinger, and he had his parents, his wife, and five children waiting for him back home. Now all they’d get was a letter, not even his body.

He shouldn’t have volunteered if he wasn’t prepared to die. Bucky forced himself to think as he pulled the trigger. He found the grave easy enough, Clint and Joe waiting for him there.

“What’s the guy’s problem?” Joe asked, staring numbly down at the bodies as Bucky dropped Seelinger into the grave. “What’s his fuckin’ deal?”

They’re joined by Howard, next, then Alfie, Jim, Jack, Robert, Benj, Eddie, Al, and finally Taylor. Every time a new body is dropped into the grave, someone asks the same question. Nobody had any answers.

A few minutes after they’re all joined together, Chisholm joined them. They snapped to attention, straightening and saluting as he picked his way through the trees to stand in front of them.

“Congratulations, men.” He announced, surveying them as evenly as ever. “You’re now all officially members of the Hawkeye Initiative. We will be heading into London tomorrow, where you will have a forty-eight hour pass to celebrate. After that, our real work will begin. You have the rest of the day off. Dismissed.”

It took a moment for anybody to move, but once Alfie slipped away, they all slowly followed after him. Despite the good news and the revelry it brought in that night, Bucky couldn’t help but think back to Seelinger, the way he’d begged Bucky not to shoot, to let him go back to his wife and children. Everybody drank that night, though Bucky wasn’t sure if anybody knew if it was in celebration, or if it was to forget what they’d had to do.

 

♢♢♢

 

Their first mission was deep in enemy territory. Clint, Bucky, and Benj were assigned to each other, which simply meant they knew if either of the others is wounded or killed. They were outfitted with the bare minimum, not even helmets on their heads when they started the trek through the forest towards the small town they intended to take. Their team was assigned to come at it from the west, which was the easiest to access, but had the most weaponry aimed towards them.

In the end, Howard took a bullet to the neck and choked on his own blood before he could drag himself out of the town. When the Germans were all killed, they gathered silently around his body. Bucky avoided looking too long. He hated the way those eyes seemed to bare straight into nothing. This was his friend. This was their first mission. This was supposed to be easy.

Eddie went next, five missions later when an enemy managed to sneak up behind him. His death was fast, at least. The bullet went straight through his heart. Then Jim’s leg got blown off by a damn mortar that they hadn’t been expecting, and he was taken away in some jeep. They didn’t see him again. Bucky later learned that he’d been killed when a bomb had hit the hospital he was in.

They kept laughing. They kept joking and telling stories, sharing a bottle of whatever they could get their hands on and passing around cigarettes. They had to. Fear, doubt, loss. These would get a man killed out there. That was another thing they’d learned. The silences get harder to fill, though, when Joe fractured his arm in three places getting thrown into a wall by a grenade. They filled it with more drinking.

For Bucky, the hardest would always be losing Benj. They’d only grown closer as the time had passed. They’d shared a foxhole, when they had to, and when the nights were cold and the walls were too thin, they’d huddle for warmth. It’d been comfortable, being with Benj. He’d reminded Bucky of Steve a bit, with his dry sarcasm. He’d never talked about his old life, but sometimes he’d laugh at jokes the guys made that only someone who’d been through something similar would find funny. Bucky hadn’t minded, though. He knew Benj had been with him from the start, from day one of the Hawkeye Initiative, before they’d even knew what it was, and that had been enough. Benj had been the one he could count on to know what he needed, be it a smoke, a drink, a laugh, or a knock over the head. Benj had a way of knowing that had made Bucky feel safe with him.

Benj was hit in the stomach. Bucky had seen him drop. He knew what he was supposed to do, he knew his orders. He hadn’t cared. He’d turned his fire to hit the offending soldier, then pulled back. He didn’t even remember running down the stairs and across the street to find Benj laying, struggling to plug his own wound. He didn’t remember desperately trying to staunch the bleeding while the others finished their fight. He didn’t remember anything he’d said to try and calm Benj, to get him to stop struggling. He did remember the way his eyes clouded over. He would always remember feeling the last breath leave Benj’s body.

He was crying silently when they had found him, cradling Benj’s body, getting soaked in his blood. There had been hands pulling him away, though he hadn’t known who they’d belonged to. It had been too hard to see through his tears, but he’d watched as Taylor took off his coat and laid it over Benj’s body. Just before he’d covered his face, Jack had reached down to close his eyes. Bucky had to look away.

He wasn’t the same after that. He didn’t joke or laugh with the others. Mostly, he’d just sat alone in his foxhole or his bed alone, staring at whatever there was to be stared at. Chisholm had almost discharged him for disobeying orders. He’d shouted until he was red-faced, and none of it had any effect on Bucky. Part of him, though he’d never admit it, had wished Chisholm had discharged him. Part of him had wished he could leave that hell behind, that pain of losing his brothers again and again.

Clint had found him three weeks after it had happened. They’d taken a platoon since, though Bucky had been getting reckless. Everyone had seen it. He was lucky to be alive, they’d agreed behind his back. Benj’s death fucked him right up, they’d agreed. Someone ought to talk to the kid.

And so Clint found him, bringing a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes as a peace offering of sorts. Bucky had accepted them quietly, stuffing the cigarettes in his breast pocket before taking a large gulp of whiskey. Then another, and another. He’d offered it to Clint, who just shook his head, and so he’d taken another.

They sat in silence, Clint clearly not knowing what to say, while Bucky drank almost a fourth of the bottle in five minutes. When Bucky had set it aside in favor of a cigarette, Clint finally spoke up. “Al managed to snag a pack of cards off some Kraut during the last run. We’ve been playing poker, mostly. I’m not very good, but I figure you can give Robert a run. You seem like the kind of guy who played poker, and he’s been kicking all our asses.”

Bucky had been silent for a long time, then he’d stood and let Clint lead him down to the makeshift box-table the others had been playing around. Bucky won every single game he played.

After that, things had gotten a bit better. Instead of having Benj to talk to, Bucky had filled that part with even more alcohol and smoking, and with long, comfortable silences alongside Clint. The next few weeks were easier to get through, and Bucky had clearly been taking less risks in the battlefield. Sometimes he and Clint would talk, but not much. It had only ever been exchanging a few short sentences amidst a sea of silence. And that was okay.

 

♢♢♢

 

Bucky didn’t write home to Steve. He did in training camp, but not in war. He’d sold his pencil and paper to Jack a few days after they shipped out. He felt wrong writing to Steve about what had happened there. It was war; it was blood and sweat and pain. He’d known Steve would worry about him either way, but he didn’t want to confirm any suspicions. Best let him wonder, Bucky thought.

He knew his silence was irrational, because Steve had already had his ideas about war. The kid may have been an optimist, but he’d never disregard reality. Steve knew the pain and suffering, or at least he’d had a good idea about it. Bucky knew that. And part of him, the part that knew the irrationality of the whole situation, wished to write Steve. He’d wanted to describe the horrors he’d witnessed and the pain he’d felt because he’d wanted to scare Steve into submission. He’d known Steve would’ve still been trying to get into the army. He’d known that Steve would’ve still been lying on enlistment forms, because once he had an idea in his head, there was no changing his mind.

But he hadn’t written anything. He’d rationalized it to himself through half thought-through arguments. Writing home about the pain would’ve only made Steve more likely to want to join. Writing home would’ve only made Steve worry. Writing home would’ve only made him miss Steve more. Writing home wouldn’t have even been fulfilling, because most of the important stuff would’ve been redacted anyway.

The last was the only real reason he let himself think about, and even then only touched the surface of that thought. There wasn’t any way he could write what he’d wanted to. There weren’t any words to describe the fact that he’d been taking lives every day, and he’d been okay with that. There weren’t any words to describe the stench of blood and burning flesh. There weren’t any words to describe the way the cold sank into their very bones, even as they’d huddled in their foxholes. There weren’t any words to describe watching your friends, your brothers, lose their lives.

Bucky wrote letters in his head, but they’d been punctuated with images, memories of flesh, torn and burnt and bloody. Those letters were signed with raw emotion, the sound of a scream tearing from the throat of a not-quite-dead Kraut and the way it resonated deep within Bucky’s heart. He understood the pain; he’d just felt it in his soul and he’d dealt with it quietly. There wasn’t any way to dictate that, so he’d never bothered to try.

 

♢♢♢

 

The end of their run came all too soon. It was Bucky’s fault, in the end. He was hit in the arm with a large piece of shrapnel, and the pain dropped him. He’d known his training. He’d known he’d had to stop the blood, to grab the plasma and bandages in his aid kit. It had attached across his waist, and all he’d had to do was reach, but all he could do was scream in agony. His body wouldn’t respond, and everything hurt. His arm felt like it was on fire, and he couldn’t move to stop it.

Then Clint had been at his side, talking to him. Bucky couldn’t have made out the words, but he’d clung to the voice like a lifeline. It had been familiar, safe. Clint took Bucky’s aid kit, sprinkled the plasma over the wound and bandaged it himself. The pain hadn’t subsided, but the fear slowly had, and Bucky had reached over to grip Clint’s arm. He’d been asking a question. Could Bucky get up? Could he get himself to cover?

Yeah. Yeah, he could do that. Bucky must’ve said it out loud, too, because Clint had pulled him up and shoved him in the direction of an open door. The last thing Bucky remembered of Holland was that he’d turned back, just in time to see a tank pointed their direction. He couldn’t remember if he yelled for Clint or not, and he couldn’t remember the blast.

The next thing he could remember was waking up in a hospital in England.

He was told that, a few days after he’d arrived, he’d gotten a terrible infection in the wound, and they’d had to amputate. Now, for an arm, he had nothing but a six inch stump. He was told that Clint Barton, who had come in with him, had been honorably discharged a day and a half ago, and had headed back to the states. When Bucky had been ready to leave, he would receive the same, along with a purple heart for his injury. He’d wondered why he would receive such a thing, since he hadn’t officially been part of the army, but he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t asked anything, he’d just listened.

They’d told him all about his injuries. He’d cracked his skull, but thankfully he hadn’t suffered major brain damage. He’d speak when they’d asked him too, reciting his name, date of birth, his hometown, other things they’d asked him to remember.

The day before he was discharged, Taylor came to visit. Apparently he’d found a girl in London the last time they’d been here, and they were going steady, so he wasn’t going back to the States. The Hawkeye Initiative had been abandoned and deemed a failure.

“There are only five of us in fighting order, what with yours ‘n Joe’s arms, and Clint’s… Well, you know.” Taylor shrugged and offers Bucky a cigarette, and he’d gladly accepted. “It just doesn’t work with only the five of us, you know? But I dunno what they expected. There were only twelve of us, and we were so ill equipped, you know? So we were all honorably discharged.” He shook his head. “Just wish I’d’a known what I was getting into.”

“I wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.” Bucky said, watching the cigarette burn down. “Not a damn thing.”

Taylor had just looked at him for a long time after that, and then left without another word.

The next day, Bucky was on a boat back to Brooklyn. It was full of others like him. Amputees, or men who’d simply stared into space, or limped around, or who’d seemed perfectly normal until anything had startled them.

I guess this is what being a hero is. Bucky thought.

 

♢♢♢

 

Part Two: Marbles on Glass

There isn’t any applause when they land in New York. There isn’t anything but silence and stares as they make their way down the gangway onto the docks. A few cries, sure, as women and children rush forward to grip their husbands and fathers. Bucky doesn’t have anything like that. Instead, he hitches his bag a little higher on his good side, and keeps his head down.

What he isn’t expecting is someone to call his name. His head jerks up and the first person his eyes land on is Steve. His Steve, still as small and stubborn as ever. Bucky barely holds back tears as he steps forward. He is with Steve, now. He is home.

He doesn’t talk about the war, but he asks questions about home. About how it had changed. The deli had shut down, but Steve has found a new job as an artist for some comic book company, and Bucky is genuinely pleased to hear that. Steve deserves this; to do something he is good at and that he loves. They have a new neighbor now, after Mrs. Milstone’s husband died in an automobile accident and, since she couldn’t work, she’d lost the apartment. Their street looks different, too. There are different kids playing in the streets, pointing toy guns at each other and shouting “BANG!”

Bucky watches as one of them catches sight of him and runs up to give a salute and a grin. “Thank you, mister!” He exclaims. “Did you kill a lot of Nazis?”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, to tell the boy that, yes he did, but suddenly he remembers Seeling. He remembers the man with a wife and kids, just like these boys. Were his kids running around? They wouldn’t even get closure.

It is suddenly very hard to breathe.

Bucky stares down at the gun in the kid’s hand in horror. Do they really think it is glamorous? Do they really think that killing, that having all this blood on his hands is something to look up to? There is no doubt in Bucky’s mind that Nazis are bad, but what about the men who had just been following orders? The men who had been fighting for their country? Wouldn’t Bucky do the same?

And what about the other blood on Bucky’s hands? Suddenly, instead of the child with a toy gun, all Bucky can see is the fucking Kraut who had shot Benj. He can feel Benj’s blood gush over his hands as he clumsily tries to plug the wound, and fails. He can feel Benj’s breath leave his body all over again, because Bucky has messed up. Because he has failed to keep his friend, his brother alive. And because of that German. That filthy fucking German who has taken Benj from him. Bucky feels rage swell in him, and he wishes he could kill him all over again. He wishes it hadn’t been over so quickly so-

“Bucky!”

Steve is in front of him now, looking concerned and scared. “Hey, Buck, you okay?” He asks, his voice low.

Bucky sets his jaw and clenches his fist and, instead of answering, pushes past Steve and up the stairs to their apartment.

It is cleaner than he ever remembers it being, but it smells like home. He drops the bag in the doorway and promptly begins moving through the apartment, running his remaining fingers over every available surface. The desk, the couch, the old radio set, the table, the backs of the chairs and the counter and the fridge and stove and fireplace and, God, the sink, the toilet bowl, the showerhead, along the wall into their room, over their bedside tables, the cots. His cot. His bed. He drops into it and pulls his blankets around him, closing his eyes, letting the familiarity return to him.

“Bucky, I’m going to make some dinner, if you want. But if you’re going to go to sleep, at least shower and change. You stink.” Steve says from the doorway.

Bucky opens his eyes and sees Steve watching him, a look of almost overwhelming fondness in his eyes. Bucky finds himself responding with a vague smile. He is finally home.

 

♢♢♢

 

The next few days are hard. The next few weeks are even harder. Bucky can barely sleep for a few hours each night, and when he’s not asleep, he takes to pacing the house until around two am, when Steve will wake up from all the movement. Sometimes he’ll coax Bucky back to bed, but mostly he’ll make coffee and they’ll sit on the couch listening to music on the radio. Bucky will close his eyes and listen to Steve talk to him.

Sometimes Steve will reminisce about when they first met. “Remember when you caught that frog and when you went to show Ma it escaped inside the house? I don’t think she ever fully forgave you for that.”

Sometimes Steve will talk about what happened while Bucky was away. “You remember old McFinn’s cafe? They made that into a dance hall. It’s real nice, I’ve heard. You should go.”

Sometimes Steve will talk about work and his frustrations with it. “They want me to have two more pages inked by the end of the week. Can you believe it? It already takes me long enough to draw them out.”

Bucky’s favorite, though, is when Steve tells him about the adventures he’s illustrating. He’s heard them all, but he’ll ask Steve to recount them again. “So there’s this Nazi Scientist, the Red Skull. He’s searching for a way to rule the world, but Captain America will always stop him. In this next issue…”

Bucky reads them, too. Steve gets a free copy after every month, when it comes out, and so Bucky reads and re-reads them almost obsessively. It is how he fills most of his time. He knows he will have to try and find work eventually, but who will hire a one-armed vet who can’t hear a sudden loud noise without dropping to the ground, expecting a mortar to impact at any moment? He knows he won’t be able to stand his old haunts, either--the noisy, crowded dance halls and bars. Hell, he can barely stand in a line when there is someone he doesn’t know behind him.

So instead he stays in, committing Captain America to memory. Steve had been worried, at first, that it would be disrespectful to the troops, showing the war in such a dramatized and almost romanticized light. Like it would nullify the struggles that the real soldiers went through. But Bucky loves it. Mostly, he loves the idea of someone like Captain America.

Captain America essentially does what his team could not. He is larger than life, more powerful and adept than the regular soldier. But he never messes up, he never fails to make the right call, and he never loses a man. He is perfect, the ideal soldier, everything Bucky was supposed to have been but wasn’t. It should by all rights piss him off, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t try to examine that feeling very far. He doesn’t try to examine any of his feelings very far.

It takes three and a half months for him to be able to sleep through the night. It takes him four before he can go out for more than an hour. He and Steve go on walks. Sometimes he zones out for several minutes before Steve can coax him back into reality. Sometimes it is be triggered by something--a loud noise or a toy gun or someone bumping into him--but mostly it just happens. He doesn’t know why, but Steve watches him closely and helps him when it does.

Sometimes Bucky thinks, Steve is as perfect as Captain America is.

After five months, he and Steve are out at a restaurant. Steve gets paid well enough now that he can support the two of them and afford a treat about once a month. This month he decides to take them to a new deli that opened a few blocks away, insisting the pickles are better than the one he’d worked at. And he’s right, they are.

They are on the way back to their house, when they hear someone calling out Bucky’s name. “Bucky! Hey, Bucky!”

Both Bucky and Steve turn together, Bucky a lot more tense than Steve, but he relaxes almost immediately when he sees Clint waving at him, grinning.

“Clint!” Bucky says, ignoring Steve’s surprise in his sudden excitement. He half-jogs over to Clint, and pulls him into the best hug he can give with one arm. Clint reciprocates the embrace just as enthusiastically. “Jesus, how’ve you been?” Bucky asks as he pulls away.

Clint’s smile falters slightly and he shrugs. “Hasn’t been easy, you know? Adjusting. ‘Specially with, well.” He gestures to the awkwardly large devices attached to both ears.

“Don’t I know it.” Bucky says dryly, glancing at his missing limb. “But, God damn, it’s good to see you again.” And it is. It’s reassuring to have Clint there. “Hey, this is Steve.”

Steve comes up behind them and holds out his hand to Clint politely. “You served with Bucky, right?”

“Yeah, I did.” Clint says with a smile, clasping Steve’s hand tightly in his own, shaking. “And you’re his roommate? The ‘Stevie’ Buck would never stop talking about?”

Steve gives Bucky a sidelong glance, but his friend only beams, looking happier than he has the last five months. “Yup, this is him.”

It’s odd how easy it is to watch Clint and Steve interact. In Bucky’s mind, the two are from completely different worlds. Steve is his anchor to the world around him here in Brooklyn. Steve is the noise of the city, the bustle of traffic, the neverending energy. Steve is his home. Clint is his anchor to the world as it had been in Europe. Clint is the silence of the trenches at night, the stillness as Bucky zeroed in on a German, the solidarity the men had formed while fighting. Clint is an understanding of what he’d done and how it had changed him.

“You live around here?” Steve asks Clint as they shake hands, a brief but solid touch.

“I’m up in Bed-Stuy.” Clint says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of his home.

“Really? We live close, then.” Steve says, glancing at Bucky again. He hadn’t told Steve about Clint.

“Surprised it took me this long to run into you.” Bucky says, still smiling. Having Steve and Clint in the same place is like grounding the two parts of his identity together; like proof that the war was not just in his head by something other than his missing arm. Even that isn’t a good reminder. Sometimes Bucky swears he can feel his fingers.

“What’s your address?” Clint asks. “We should go out for drinks some time.”

“You got a phone?” Bucky asks, then immediately feels stupid as Clint gestures to his hearing aids.

“I take these out when I’m home, so I wouldn’t hear it ring anyway.”

To Bucky’s surprise, Steve speaks up, giving Clint their address, and their phone number just in case. Clint doesn’t write it down, but Bucky knows he’ll remember it. They had to remember stuff like that in Europe. Numbers, names, addresses, orders, everything they’d have to commit to memory. A paper trail was a dangerous thing. Bucky can still tell anybody who cared to ask the exact longitude of the town they’d first taken.

But he also remembers the feeling of Benj’s blood, hot and slick against his skin. He remembers the way his friend’s eyes had glossed over as his life slipped away. These are the images that plague him in his sleep, mostly. These are the images that start him awake, sweating and grabbing for the gun he kept under his pillow.

Steve always wakes up when Bucky has a nightmare. He’d always been a light sleeper, and Bucky finds himself appreciating this fact even more than he’d ever admit. At first he tells Steve he is okay, but Steve always sees through that and eventually Bucky stops saying it.

 

♢♢♢

 

Part Three: From This Dream

Bucky and Clint meet at a small, quiet bar not far from Bedford-Stuyvesant that Clint frequents. It is poorly lit and only offers a limited selection, which reminds Bucky of the bars in Europe. Of course, those bars would always be packed when Bucky was there, filled above capacity with soldiers celebrating their time off. This one has only a few other patrons. Bucky has worn his uniform as Clint had suggested, and it proves to pay off.

“God bless you, boys.” The bar keeper tells them as they take their places at the bar. “First round’s on me.”

The second round is paid for by a woman whose husband had died in the war, and the third by a man who feels it his duty to give back to those who fought, especially those who were injured. Bucky decides then to start wearing his uniform out more often.

“So, how has Brooklyn been treating you?” Bucky asks, nursing his first beer.

“My heating apparently cost doubled while I was away.” Clint complains. “And my wife left me and didn’t bother to tell me where she was going, or even that she was going. She was just gone when I got back. And I left my dog in the care of a friend while I was away, but now he likes her more than me. Also, I wrecked my car a week ago.”

“Jesus, that’s shitty.” Bucky says, genuinely surprised. Not only by the events that had befallen Clint, but because Clint was so openly complaining. On the front, all complaints were played off with jokes. It was the only way to keep all the men from eating their guns. But here Bucky supposed there was no need to laugh it off in order to survive.

“You’re telling me.” Clint shakes his head and mutters, “Lost my fuckin’ dog.”

“How did you afford to take care of a damn dog in the city during the depression?” Bucky wonders aloud, hoping to get Clint onto another topic.

“I, uh, I did some work with a group.” Clint shrugs.

“Wow, you did not answer my question at all.” Bucky teases, and he watches a small smile tug at the corner of Clint’s mouth.

“Government work, mostly. Can’t really talk about a lot of it. ‘Course my number came up in the lottery and they decided I wasn’t worth as much over here as I would be over there, so I was shipped off to fuckin’ Europe.”

“Aw, come on. Europe wasn’t all bad. What about the girls?” Bucky nudges Clint and takes another drink of his beer.

“Girls, yeah. I liked the girls.” Clint says, thoughtfully. “The girls were nice. ‘Course I would’ve like them better if I’d’ve known my wife left me.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so they finish that round in silence. After the second is given to them, Clint glances at Bucky.

“What about you?”

“Hm?” Bucky asks through a mouthful of drink.

“How’ve you been since coming back?” Something changes in Clint’s eyes as he asks. It was like the man he is here in Brooklyn is briefly shadowed by the man he’d been in the war. The one who’d noticed everything, who’d killed a man every time he’d pulled the trigger, and who had risked his life to save Bucky’s.

Bucky turns and looks at his beer, the amber liquid bubbling softly in the glass. He’s quiet for a long time, wondering how he’s supposed to answer that. He can tell the God’s honest truth, about the nightmares and the difficulties of being crippled and how sometimes he can’t bring himself to get out of bed, and when he does go out he is almost guaranteed to blank out in the middle of a crowd. It makes him feel weak, vulnerable, and broken. He is certain war heroes aren’t supposed to be so scared. Where had the fearless soldier he’d been in Europe gone?

Or he can lie to Clint. That seems to be the easiest option, and the words “I’m fine,” are on his tongue. But he can’t quite get them out. The way Clint looks at him makes it quite clear that he is expecting the truth. How can Bucky say everything, though? What does Clint want?

“I’m managing.” He says briefly, before taking another large drink. It isn’t a lie, at least.

“Yeah. Yeah, one day at a time.” Clint mutters.

The third round loosens them both up, and they start telling stories, sharing memories. It feels good to be laughing about the war, and by the sixth round Bucky is laughing hard as Clint recounts a story about Jack and Eddie.

“...so then Eddie looks Jack dead in the eyes and says, no joke, ‘You got a smoke?” Clint finishes, and Bucky howls with laughter, drawing the attention of everyone in the bar. He doesn’t notice, and if he did, he probably wouldn’t have cared. He knows he deserves this freedom, this happiness that had seemed so unattainable for the last five months.

“What did Jack do?” Bucky asks through his laughter.

Clint grins. “He just turned and walked away. Looked like he’d seen a damn ghost.”

Bucky has taken another drink and he snorts most of it onto his lap when he laughs again. “No fuckin’ wonder!”

That’s when the bar keep announces closing time. Bucky slips off his stool and pays for his drinks, then brushes at his trousers, uselessly trying to dry them at least a little. When he determines that it’s just not going to happen, he follows Clint out into the night. It’s snowing out, large flakes swirling down from the sky. Bucky grins up into the darkness. “Been a while since I’ve seen snow at home.” He remarks, making Clint laugh.

“Yeah, only four years.”

“I think it’s closer to three.” Bucky muses, throwing his arm around Clint’s shoulders.

“Nah, it was four. Right? Two years of training, two years of fighting.” Clint holds up four fingers, as if counting.

“I left during the winter, so the one year doesn’t count. Right?” Bucky frowns, trying to remember. “Shit. No. You’re right.”

“Ha!” Clint exclaims triumphantly, slinging his arm over Bucky’s shoulder. “I told you.”

“Yeah, you did. Asshole.”

 

♢♢♢

 

Everything becomes easier after that. With Clint, Bucky can talk about the war because he knows there will be an understanding. They don’t talk about the painful stuff, but it makes it all easier to deal with. He can tell Steve is relieved that Bucky is going out again, and that he’s doing so much better. 

After six months of nightmares, Bucky finally gets a good night’s sleep, which is good because the next day Steve gets sick. It starts the same as it always does, a small cough. He tries to tell Bucky that he’s fine and he should go to work, but Bucky makes him stay in by telling him if he lets it get worse now by pushing himself, he’ll miss more work later on. He can tell Steve is frustrated by the fact that he’s totally right. So Bucky takes a bit of cash Steve had saved up and goes down to the pharmacy. On the way back, he uses the payphone to call Steve’s work.

By the time he gets back, Steve has a fever. It’s not very high, but Bucky worries anyway. He makes Steve drink and eat just enough to take his medicine. He makes Steve stay in his bed. He keeps an eye on him, forcing him to take care of himself in ways he knows Steve wouldn’t on his own. Honestly, it’s a miracle Steve survived while he was away. When he says this, Steve laughs himself into a coughing fit. That’s reassuring to Bucky, at least.

At around noon, Steve is growing restless, so Bucky offers to do the only thing he knows will make him sit still for more than a few minutes. “Here.” He hands Steve his sketchbook and his nub of a pencil. He reminds himself to get a new one later. “Draw me.”

Steve sees through it immediately as a tactic to get him to stay still--Bucky has always hated sitting still long enough to be drawn, but he gives in. “Sit on the floor. One knee up. No, your left one. There. A little further down, and put your arm over it. Lean forward more.” Steve starts instructing Bucky into the pose he wants, then stops. “Actually, can you get in your uniform?”

Bucky pauses. He didn’t like putting the uniform on, honestly, besides that one night out with Clint, and wearing it at home just feels wrong to him. But he is willing to do it for Steve, so he goes to the dresser and pulls it out. Putting it on is always difficult, especially buttoning it up, and pulling his pants up, but he’s grown used to it over time. In the end, Steve positions him sitting against the wall, his posture and odd mix of formal and relaxed.

After about an hour, his back starts to ache. An hour and a half later, he has to call a break when his leg cramps up and, swearing, he rubs the ache out of his muscle. Three hours later, Steve is done, and he proudly presents the finished product to Bucky.

It’s amazing, like all of Steve’s works are, but it’s different. Most of the time, when Steve draws Bucky, it’s clear that he is portraying Bucky as he sees him. But this one, it looks like how Bucky feels. He takes it from Steve’s hands and stares at the portrait for a long time. This Bucky looks as if he’s caught in between soldier and civilian, like he almost fits either of those roles, but not quite. His expression is distant, yet concentrated, like he’s watching something serious unfold in his mind’s eye. The uniform seemed a little loose on him in places, a bit tighter in others. He is angled so the lost arm wasn’t quite in sight, but is implied.

“Jesus, Stevie.” Bucky says after staring at the portrait for a long time. “You just keep gettin’ better.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” Steve says, almost dismissively as he accepts the sketch book back.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a few seconds, then Bucky stands up. “Alright, you hungry? What am I saying, of course you’re hungry. You’re always eating. I’ll go make you something.”

Steve gets better a few days later, and returns to work after Bucky forces him to take an extra day off. “I just want to make sure, Steve. Oh, Christ, don’t look at me like that. You know you’d work yourself to death if I weren’t here to stop you.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Steve mumbles, though he doesn’t try to push past Bucky to get to the door.

For some reason, hearing that from Steve hurts more than when Bucky says it himself, and he straightens his back and averts his gaze, not entirely sure of what to say. Steve’s already turning away, though.

The nightmares come back that night, but instead of Benj, it’s Steve’s body under Bucky’s hands. Steve’s blood spilling through his fingers, and he can’t stop it. He looks up to call for help, but they’re not on the battlefield, they’re in Brooklyn. Everybody moves past, not even sparing a second glance as Bucky scrambles, trying to save Steve’s life. He can feel Steve’s small body shaking under his hands, jerking unevenly as he tries to gasp for breath. Blood is filling his lungs now, Bucky can tell, and soon any minute now he’ll be gone.

Bucky wakes up with tears down his face and Steve, alive and by his side, there to pull him into a hug.

 

♢♢♢

 

Bucky tries to find a job. He honestly doesn’t know where to start, since most of his go-to locations were either closed down since the war, or require two hands. He’d always gone for the manual labor kinds of jobs, and now he has no idea what other kinds of occupations are available. Even those he can think of that are traditionally taken by girls or the elderly require two hands.

Every day for the next two and a half weeks ends in frustration, with Bucky coming home and feeling useless. This is his fault, this is God’s punishment for something, he is sure. He thinks of every sin he’s committed as he drinks more and more each night. He remembers every girl he’s taken, though they weren’t married. He thinks of every time he’s cursed, every time he’s ever stolen, every lie he’s ever told. He thinks of every time he’s killed.

His mind keeps coming back to one thing, though. He’d pushed it to the edges of his mind a long time ago, hoping to bury it so far deep it would never resurface. It is so wrong, so sick and depraved and dangerous to even think this way, and he knows something must be wrong with him. But he keeps remembering.

It had been a hot summer’s day years ago, and Bucky had been working down at the docks. By noon, every man had stripped their shirts off, and still they were sweating. They’d all crowded in the small amount of shade available for lunch, smoking and laughing like normal. And Bucky’s gaze kept wandering. He’d hated himself for it when he’d catch himself. He hates himself for remembering it now. Most of all, he hates himself for what he’d done that night in the shower.

His thoughts had wandered while the water had run over his shoulders, back to that afternoon, sweating and hot and shirtless, barely any space between bodies. When he’d touched himself, it wasn’t to the thought of a beautiful girl, as it normally was. He’d imagined what would have happened if he’d closed the distance between him and any of the men around him. He’d wondered what it would feel like to hold a man down, instead of a dame.

He’d come wondering what it would be like to take another cock in his mouth, to hear a man moan under him.

Bucky drains another bottle, the fifth in as many days, into his mouth, swallowing hard. When he stands up to recycle it, the world spins pleasantly around him.

“Buck. Are you going to come to bed?” Steve’s voice startles Bucky out of his self-loathing.

“I’m… I’m gonna go outside. Gonna have a smoke.” Bucky mumbles, fumbling for his pack of cigarettes, frowning when he opens it to find there’s only one left.

“Bucky, look at me.” Steve says, and Bucky complies. Steve’s skinny frame still manages to take up enough space because of the way he held himself. His stance is wide and confident and his arms are folded firmly over his chest. “What’s going on?”

Bucky pulls the cigarette out and places it between his lips. “Nothing. ‘M fine, Stevie.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve and gives a sloppy, teasing smirk. “Now now, that’s not very Catholic of you.” He chides.

Steve isn’t amused. “I’ve let you get away with this for too long. I don’t press when you have nightmares, I let you go out who-knows-where all day, I don’t question it. I figure that’s your business if you want to tell me or not. But this… This is self-destruction. I won’t let this go.”

Bucky has to lean against the counter to keep from ending up on his ass. He turns his gaze to the floor as Steve talks. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and fidgets with it, rolling it over in his fingers. “‘M goin’ to hell, Steve.” He finally says, after a too-long silence.

“You did what you had to do.” Steve says softly, moving forward slowly. “I can’t believe He would put you over there and expect you to die.”

“It ain’t that.” Bucky shakes his head, and finds himself wishing he had more drink.

“What is it?” Steve asks, pressing his hand to Bucky’s arm lightly.

“When I was over there, I was killin’, sure, but I had it in my head that I was doing it for you. You’re the only thing that’s ever really mattered to me, you know that. I’d do anything for you, and it’d be okay, you know? I could lie and steal and cheat all I wanted, and it was okay if I did it for you. I’d gladly go to hell for you, you know that? Gladly. But, God, I’m selfish. I’m so fucking selfish and sick.” Bucky closes his eyes, unable to look at Steve anymore.

There’s a silence before Steve speaks again. “You’re not going to hell, Buck. You’re a good man. You’re honest and strong and brave and that’s what counts.”

Bucky makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I fuckin’ wish that were true. I really, honestly do. God knows it ain’t. I can’t even… God, I can’t even fight off whatever demons are comin’ on to me.”

“You don’t have to fight it alone, you know.” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s arm. “I’m here for you.”

“You wouldn’t be if you knew.” Bucky says, running his fingers through his hair, wishing he could just vanish.

There’s a long silence, and the pressure of Steve’s hand on Bucky’s arm disappears. “James Buchanan Barnes, you look at me.” He demands, his voice changed. Bucky opens his eyes in surprise to see Steve standing as tall as he can in front of him, his expression as determined as his voice. “You’re my best friend. You’re a soldier and a good man, and whatever you’re going through, it ain’t your fault, you hear me? Now, don’t you dare think for one second that I won’t stand by you no matter what after everything we’ve gone through together. Everything you’ve done for me. Do you understand?”

Bucky stares at Steve, wide-eyed and suddenly feeling a lot more sober than before. More than anything, he believes Steve is sincere. That if he spills everything right now, he would still at least have Steve. “I understand.” He says numbly.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, then?” Steve asks, still firmly but not as demanding as before.

“When I’m sober.” Bucky says, setting the cigarette on the counter. “Let’s go to bed for now.” 

The next night, Bucky and Clint meet at Clint’s apartment for drinks. Bucky had avoided the conversation with Steve that morning by leaving before he could press the issue any further, and he is hoping to get back after Steve is asleep. He’d told Steve he was going to Clint’s and hopes that he won’t wait up.

He and Clint settle on the couch, passing back and forth cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. It is cheap and it burns Bucky’s throat, but it does it’s job.

“You think we’re goin’ to hell for what we did over there?” Bucky asks as he lets out a large cloud of cigarette smoke.

Clint takes a large drink and swallows hard before answering. “I think we were in hell when we were over there.”

♢♢♢

 

Part Four: Pretty Face, Electric Soul

Bucky ends up spending the night at Clint’s, passed out on the couch, practically on top of each other, limbs tangled as they tried to fit both of them on a couch that might fit Steve. When they wake, they’re both sore and their heads hurt and Clint lets Bucky take the first shower. The cold water wakes them up, enough for Clint to make toast for breakfast, along with a glass of milk. Bucky’s glad that’s all he has, because he’s sure that he wouldn’t have been able to stomach anything else.

Even though his body aches, he feels remarkably better than he has in weeks. When he leaves, they decide to meet again next week, same time, at Clint’s place. As Bucky turns to leave he notices a grinning girl, perhaps 20, approaching him.

“Hey!” She chirps and Clint pokes his head out of the door at the sound of her voice.

“What’re you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming by until tomorrow.” Clint asks as she stops besides Bucky.

“Wow, thanks. Good to see you too.” She rolls her eyes and ignores his question, looking Bucky up and down. “You’re Bucky?”

“I am.” Bucky says, glancing at Clint, who just looks tired more than anything.

“Kate Bishop.” She holds out her hand.

“Bishop? Like-” 

“Derek Bishop, yeah.” She cuts Bucky off, dropping her hand when he shows no sign of taking it. “He’s my dad.”

Bucky glances from Kate to Clint, then scoffs and shakes his head. “How the hell do you end up with someone like Barton?” He asks, and Clint frowns at him.

She hesitates before answering, and when she does, it’s vague. “Work.”

She pushes her way in the house, past Clint, who sighs and gives Bucky a pleading look before following her inside.

When Bucky gets home, Steve is waiting for him on the couch, and he watches closely as Bucky takes off his jacket and shoes at the door, then heads to the kitchen to get some water. He’s still there, still staring at Bucky when he comes out of the kitchen as well, and Bucky relents with a sigh.

“I know I said I’d talk about it, but I don’t think I need to anymore.” Bucky says, continuing when all he gets is a raised eyebrow. “I was talking to Clint last night, just about the war, you know? And he said something that made me realize that it’s pointless worrying about it. Heaven and hell and all that. I already been to hell, Steve, and all it cost me was my arm.”

Steve’s brow creases as he contemplates Bucky’s words. Bucky feels like Steve is carefully taking him apart, examining him, and putting him back together. He sips on his water nervously. Finally, after what seems like years but is probably only a few seconds, Steve nods. “You still know you can talk to me? Tell me anything?”

Bucky knows. Hell, telling Steve will probably absolve him of his sins faster than telling any damn priest. If Steve accepts Bucky, it doesn’t matter if God does or not. And maybe, Bucky realizes, if the war was hell, Steve is his own piece of heaven.

“I know.”

Things get easier. Bucky finds a job at a movie theater, selling tickets four times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday nights. To celebrate, Steve takes them out to eat again, even though they ate out the night before. Bucky protests, but Steve says that with Bucky’s income as well, it’s okay for them to treat themselves more often.

When he tells Clint the next Friday night, Clint gives a toast and Bucky can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. A few drinks in, he doesn’t much care, either. They’re leaning against each other on the couch, laughing as Bucky recounts a story from training about Benj and Al making a bet on whether or not Al could steal Chisholm’s gun. It turned out he could steal it, but putting it back was almost impossible.

“Fuck knows how he did it, but I swear to God when he got out of there he’d pissed his fuckin’ pants.” Bucky finishes and Clint rolls his head back as he laughs, leaning it against Bucky’s shoulder.

“What a fucking moron!” He laughs. “God, I hope he’s grown a few more brain cells.” 

Bucky snorts. “I wouldn’t count on it. ‘Member when he hit himself in the head with his own gun? That probably killed what was left of them.”

“Can’t claim any of us were any smarter.” Clint says, turning to grin at Bucky, head still resting on Bucky’s shoulder. “We were still there, weren’t we?”

Bucky takes a drag of his cigarette and shakes his head, still smiling to himself. “‘Least we didn’t try and cross Chisholm.” He points out.

“Wasn’t that what we did, though? You did when you went to help Benj, I did when I went to help you.” Clint is no longer smiling, and neither was Bucky.

“Yeah, I guess so. Wasn’t really challenging him, though. Not what I was thinking when…” Bucky’s voice trails off.

“Neither was I. I was just thinking, ‘God, not him, too.’” Clint says softly. Bucky turns to look at him, their faces only inches apart.

“You shouldn’t have saved me, you know. You may still have your hearing if you didn’t.” He says, just as quiet.

“No.” Clint replies. “I’ll never for a minute regret it.”

Bucky’s eyes moved to Clint’s lips as he spoke. He wants so badly to lean in and kiss him, and the feeling startles him. He looks forward again and takes a long drag off his cigarette. “Pass me the booze, would you?”

The night turns to early morning and, eventually, they fall back into their laughing and joking, nudging each other with their shoulders, sharing drink and smokes until they were out. Bucky stands, swaying slightly as the sun begins to shine through the window.

“I ought to get home. Stevie’ll be worried about me.” He says, gesturing towards the door.

Clint, half-asleep, opens his eyes and hums, then asks, “What’s the deal with Steve and you, anyway?”

Bucky frowns slightly, automatically becoming defensive. Normally, these conversations end up with Bucky punching out anybody who dares to insult Steve. “What do you mean?” he asks cooly.

“Hey, no harm intended.” Clint says, holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender for a brief moment before letting them fall to his lap again. “I just meant, since you got a job and all now, you could get an apartment on your own.”

“No.” Bucky replies, before he can stop himself, or even fully register what Clint was saying. He backtracks mentally, trying to form a coherent argument in his drunken, sleep-deprived mind. “Stevie’s my best friend. We’ve lived together since his mom passed. For financial reasons, mostly, but there are medical reasons, too. Steve’s sick a lot. And honestly, he takes care of me, too. I been…” Bucky struggles here to find the right words. “I been fucked in the head since the war. Nightmares and shit. I don’t know if I would be okay living on my own.”

Clint watches Bucky as he talks, then stands up slowly. “I get it.” His simple reply confuses Bucky, but only for a moment.

A second later, Clint reaches up and pulls Bucky down, kissing him firmly. Bucky’s mind freezes, but his body, thankfully, goes on autopilot. As he kisses back, hand on Clint’s waist, he runs through the situation, and decides that it’s not the right time to be thinking about this, so he lets his brain stop completely. Clint’s kisses aren’t like any Bucky’s shared with a dame before. When he kissed girls, he had every intention of bedding them, so they were hot and desperate and their lips and skin were soft. Clint kisses Bucky like a dam bursting open, like all this love and affection has been held back and now he wants to do right by Bucky, to take him out to dinners and dances and bars and maybe one day settle down and live together. Clint’s lips are chapped, and there is the scratch of his beard, and everything about it is perfect.

When they pull away for air, they’re both blushing, and they both look down. After an awkward thirty seconds, Bucky breaks the silence.

“How long have you been wanting to do that?” He asks with a small smile.

“Since the first night we went out together.” Clint replies, his voice shaking slightly due to, Bucky assumes, nerves. “You were laughing and I thought, God, you were so beautiful. I thought I could love you for the rest of my life.”

“Should’a said something sooner.” Bucky says, reaching up to run his fingers over Clint’s jawline. “Could’a had a longer forever.”

Clint gives a small, nervous laugh. “Didn’t know you felt the same. Didn’t know until tonight when you looked at me. And then I thought maybe if you were like this, you must have something with Steve. ‘S why I asked about him.”

“You were jealous?” Bucky teases.

“Nothing to be jealous of, is there?” Clint glances up at Bucky again, and Bucky feels his heart melt.

“No. Not now there isn’t.”

He kisses Clint again and again and he never wants to let go. He hates that he has to in order to go home, and he hates that he can’t kiss Clint again and again after the door is open, in case somebody sees them. Even so, Bucky’s walking on air the entire way home.

 

♢♢♢

 

Things are so much better after that. Bucky works hard and eventually gets two more shifts for matinees on Thursday and Friday. He’s thrilled he’s finally able to pull his own weight again. They don’t have to worry about money anymore, and so Bucky spoils Steve. He buys him cake and fresh fruits and vegetables and everything else that hadn’t been available during the war. It is, for the most part, self-indulgent, but Bucky doesn’t care. 

Of course, they save money too. The idea that they have extra money to save delights them both, and a portion of each payment goes into an envelope stuffed into the sock drawer. When that is full, there is another envelope tucked under Steve’s mattress, then the one hidden in the back of the medicine cabinet.

He and Steve are both happier, and Bucky hasn’t had a nightmare in a long time. 

And Clint… God, with Clint, Bucky feels like anything is possible. They still get together once a week, only now their drinking and laughing turns into kissing. Sometimes it would turn into desperate touches, gasping into each other’s mouth, shaking and moaning and pressing closer together. Mostly, though, it was just kissing like the world would fall apart if they ever pull away. Bucky loves Clint, really and truly, and he believes Clint felt the same. They know what they are doing is immoral, illegal, and wrong in any way you look at it, but they don’t care. They need each other. They understand each other.

Months passed like this, and it is good. It is so good. Bucky never wants it to end, and for the first time, he thinks this little piece of heaven might last forever.

 

♢♢♢

 

Steve is working late when Clint comes over for the first time. They sit out on the steps as they drink and smoke, because they can’t smoke in the house due to Steve’s asthma. It is a hot summer night, and soon enough they’ve both stripped out of their shirts. They sit close, brushing shoulders lightly, but they keep their touches casual, appropriate in case someone is to see.

“You know, you never told me what you did.” Bucky says, dropping the butt of his cigarette over the edge onto the sidewalk below, then grabbing the bottle from Clint.

“I did tell you. Government worker. Not anymore, though.” He gestures to his hearing aids. “Won’t have me back. Now I work at a grocery store a few blocks south of my place.”

“Yeah? What kind of government work?” Bucky asks, taking a large drink.

“The top secret kind.” Clint says with a small smile that Bucky wanted to kiss off his face. “I was a bodyguard of sorts.”

“Yeah? Makes sense. You can be scary as hell when you want to. Does that mean you knew how to shoot before you were drafted?”

“I wasn’t drafted, I enlisted.” Clint corrects, taking the bottle back from Bucky. “And yeah, I knew how to shoot.”

“I thought your number came up?” Bucky asks.

“I guess I lied about that. I did enlist.” Clint says, still with that gorgeous smirk.

Bucky watches Clint take a big drink, then stands up. “Come on.”

Clint makes a show of groaning and standing as if his joints were thirty years older, and Bucky rolls his eyes at that. Almost as soon as they are inside and the door is shut, Bucky’s on Clint, kissing him desperately, hand tangling in his surprisingly soft blond hair. It’s clear what he wants, and Clint pushes him off.

“Not here. Take me to your bedroom.” He orders, and Bucky gives a sarcastic salute.

“Yes, sir.” 

A minute later, Bucky has Clint on top of him, pressing him into the mattress as he kisses his neck and collar bones, slowly shifting lower. When he pulls Bucky’s pants down, still face-level with his cock, it becomes clear what Clint is about to do.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and thanks God for this moment, barely able to keep quiet. He’s so lost in the bliss, he doesn’t hear the front door open, or the footsteps coming down the hall. He does, however, hear the bedroom door open and the shocked sound that Steve lets out.

Bucky’s eyes fly open to see Steve standing there, pointedly looking away, blushing up to his ears. His heart stops, and before he can get anything out, Steve is gone again. Bucky swears and scrambles up, his boner gone now, and pulls on a pair of pants as fast as he can. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Steve, but he knows he has to say something. He tells Clint to stay in the bedroom and nervously walks out. He hadn’t hear the front door open again so that means Steve is still in the house.

Sure enough, he is sitting on the couch, still blushing, his face buried in his hands. If he hears Bucky approach, he makes no sign of it. 

“I thought you were at work.”

“I met the deadline sooner than I thought I would.” Steve’s voice is muffled in his hands.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky whispers. “I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong. I know it’s stupid and dangerous, but, fuck, when I’m with Clint it all feels worth it. Like it’ll be okay in the end. I… I love him, Steve, and I may be goin’ to hell for it, but I honestly can’t bring myself to give a fuck.”

Steve runs his fingers through his hair, looking up slowly, but keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on Bucky. “How long have you two been, uh, been together?” He asks, his voice shaking slightly.

“About seven months. I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.” Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to another. “I get it if you want to kick me out. I won’t complain, I’ll just go.”

“No.” Steve says, quickly. “God, no, Bucky, I’m not disgusted by you. I’m not going to kick you out, and I don’t think you’re going to hell. I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t expect, uh, to see, well, that.”

Bucky feels a wave of relief sweep over him, but at the same time he doesn’t dare believe it. “You… You don’t think it’s wrong?”

“I don’t. I don’t see how loving someone can be wrong.” Steve says, glancing up at Bucky for a brief moment. “I, uh, next time you have him over, though, I’d like some warning.”

Bucky can’t help the relieved laugh that he let out. “Jesus. Jesus, you’re too good to be real. Yeah, I can give you a heads up next time.”

Clint is fully dressed again by the time Bucky comes back, and sitting on the bed looking pensive. His head jerks up when Bucky enters, visibly relaxing when he sees the smile on Bucky’s face.

“I must be the luckiest guy in the world.” Bucky says, sitting next to Clint. “Steve’s fine with it. He was just surprised by, well…” He let his voice trail off.

“By the fact that I had you in my mouth?” Clint smiles slightly. “Sorry, I’m not sure I can ever look him in the eyes again.” 

Bucky chuckles, turning to bury his face in Clint’s neck. “Yeah. Sorry. At least I don’t have to hide it anymore.”

Clint takes Bucky’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Yeah. Yeah, you deserve to be able to be yourself.”

 

♢♢♢

 

Steve invites Clint out for dinner a few weeks later, and he holds Bucky’s hand under the table the whole time, unable to look directly at Steve. Still, Bucky keeps the conversation going easily, and soon enough the three of them are laughing and, at the very least, a bit less tense. Bucky walks Clint home and ends up staying the night. When he goes to work the next day, nobody comments on his limp, but his coworkers do tease him about the hickeys lining his neck.

Days turn to weeks, turn to months turn to years. Bucky and Steve move to Bedford-Stuyvesant, to the same apartment complex Clint lives in. They have two bedrooms now, and half the time Clint shares Bucky’s bed. (The other half, Bucky is up with Clint.) They fall into a pattern, an easy push-and-pull, the three of them cohabitating easily. Once the initial awkwardness is over, Clint and Steve get along well. Clint sees the same spirit in Steve that Bucky does.

Steve meets a girl. A gorgeous woman with tight curls and red lips and a fierce attitude to match his own. Peggy’s a veteran, too, and she clicks immediately with both Bucky and Clint. When Bucky comes out to her, she just raises an eyebrow and tells him she already knows, and that’s when Bucky decides Steve needs to keep her forever.

And he does. Seven and a half years after the end of the war, Steve tells Bucky he’s going to propose to Peggy. Eight and a half years, and Bucky is fixing Steve’s bowtie and patting his shoulder as they stand in a back room of a beautiful catholic church. Honestly, it’s the first time Bucky’s stepped foot in a church since coming home.

“You look killer, Stevie. Stop worrying so much. You two are perfect together.” Bucky assures him.

Peggy looks absolutely stunning in a long white gown, her hair done up intricately and Bucky would swear that she was glowing. Nobody can take their eyes off of her as she comes down the aisle. For half a second, when they are exchanging vows, Bucky feels bitter that he and Clint can’t have this moment, but he dismisses the thought as quick as it comes. It is Steve’s day, it is Peggy’s day, and Bucky would be damned if he isn’t going to try and make it as perfect as possible for them.

A few weeks later, Steve moves out. He and Peggy have a nice place upstate, and Bucky is happy for him--really. But as he watches Steve go, he feels a sense of loneliness. He plans to move in with Clint when the lease is up, but that’s still a month away and it’s the first time in more years than Bucky cares to count that Bucky will be living without Steve, if he doesn’t count the war.

Clint hugs him from behind and kisses the shell of his ear. “It’s alright. He’s not so far, just a bus ride away.” He murmurs. “War didn’t keep you apart, and this short distance isn’t going to either.”

Bucky turns to kiss Clint, quick and tender. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. ‘Sides, his place is much nicer, anyway. We can always crash there when we get tired of Bed-Stuy.”

Clint knocks Bucky upside the head. “You trashing Bed-Stuy? I’ll have you know I’ve lived here for fifteen years now.”

Bucky laughs and ducks out of Clint’s arms. “Come on, this isn’t exactly upstate.” 

“No.” Clint agrees, smiling at Bucky. “But it’s home. Besides, upstate doesn’t have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part One:  
> -I literally just made them go through this weird not-army thing because I was super confused by the setup of a platoon. I know this is a terrible idea and wouldn't ever fly, but I'm bad at research so.
> 
> Part Two:  
> -PTSD is actually really hard to write. I probably should have done more research than I did.  
> -I really like the idea of Steve working for Marvel and coming up with the idea for Captain America. I'm 5674832% convinced that's what would have happened if he hadn't gone off to war. Because I like breaking the fourth wall and because he would.
> 
> Part Three:  
> -The story Clint tells Bucky in the bar is based on something that happened of Band Of Brothers. I love that show. 10/10 would recommend.  
> -Steve Rogers is an angel and I love him probably more than I love myself.
> 
> Part Four:  
> -I had to add Katie-Kate. I had to.  
> -This is literally as close as I will ever get to writing a sex scene. I'm so bad at it. I just kind of die of embarrassment I can't do it.  
> -Peggy Carter is also an angel. I definitely love her more than I love myself.


End file.
